


Let's Shed Some Light on the Problem

by sariane



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Crack, Fanboy Phil Coulson, Gen, M/M, Phil loves him anyways, Steve isn't sure how to feel about this situation, Tony is a jerk, but so is Clint, this is basically an episode of a sitcom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-22
Updated: 2013-07-22
Packaged: 2017-12-21 01:04:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/893983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sariane/pseuds/sariane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>(Or, Tony </i>is<i> the problem.)</i></p><p>It's moving day at the Tower. Phil has a lot of very delicate, very valuable collectibles. Steve helps him and Clint out. Tony doesn't.</p><p>I think you can see where this is going.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let's Shed Some Light on the Problem

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally posted [to my tumblr](http://sarriane.tumblr.com/post/54296747091) in response to a prompt, which is listed in the end notes.
> 
> It's crack. Complete, utter, unapologetic crack. Enjoy. :)

"Jesus, Phil, you have too many comic books," Clint groaned as he pulled yet another box out of Phil’s shiny red car.

"Is it too much weight for you to handle?" Phil asked, tilting his head to the side challengingly, like  _Clint_  was the one who couldn’t lift anything over ten pounds because of recent, life-saving, highly convenient surgeries. “I can always up your workout routine if you think you need more—"

"Wow, look at how light these boxes are!" Clint said in a flat voice, lifting another box onto the one he was already holding. It wasn’t that heavy, really — it was the principle of the thing.

"Do you two need any help?" Clint turned to see Steve Rogers standing on the sidewalk in the private little park behind the Tower. A smile began to grow on Clint’s face. 

He watched as Phil turned slightly red and glanced furtively at the last box left in the backseat of the car — the box Clint had lovingly labeled “CAPTAIN AMERICA STALKING MATERIALS" with a huge heart drawn around it.

"Uh, that won’t be necessary," Phil said quickly, stepping in front of the car, “I’ll get that last box—"

"Oh, no, sir, you shouldn’t be lifting heavy things right now," Clint said, voicing dripping with mock concern.

"It’s no problem," Steve said, placing a hand on Phil’s shoulder to push him gently aside. Phil turned even pinker at that, and was on his way to bright red as Steve lifted the box out of the car. Clint loved to see him actually break his cool for once. “Is that everything?" Steve asked, looking down at the writing on the box and then at Clint with raised eyebrows.

Phil, too embarrassed to note that Steve had made the connection between the label and Clint, was as red as his car, Lola.

"Natasha, Bruce, and Thor got the rest," Clint said.

"And Tony?" Steve asked

"Like he’d actually help," Clint snorted, “I think he’s still pretending no one’s moved in."

Steve chuckled. “We should take this stuff up to your room," he said. “You coming, Coulson?"

"I need to park the car," Phil said, pulling the keys from his suit pocket. His blush had faded by now, unfortunately. “Cli — Barton, be careful with that, they’re  _collector’s items,_ " he said sternly.

"Yes, sir," Clint said, ignoring Phil’s scowl and freeing up a hand to salute him. “Be careful with that box, Steve, it contains his 1984 Commemorative Captain America and Bucky glass figurine," Clint said seriously, “not to mention the Captain America fanfiction he wrote when he was fifteen."

Phil opened his mouth, closed it, and after a nearly visible mental calculation, decided his energies would better be used to escape the situation than to deny the truth. Clint just smirked.

"Get that stuff upstairs, Barton," Phil said, slamming the car door shut with a glare that told Clint he was going to regret this later. He didn’t much care. “I’m going to go _…" die now_ , Clint mentally finished as Phil drove off towards Stark’s garage.

He laughed as they watched the car disappear.

"Nice car," Steve commented. “You know, you really should stop trying to embarrass him like that."

"But it’s so much  _fun,_ " Clint smirked as they headed towards the back door. “You know Coulson, a week of living here and running into you eating breakfast cereal and heading to the showers after some time in the gym? I’ll never be able to tease him again."

"Pretty sure that’s a good thing," Steve said.

"Yeah, yeah," Clint muttered as they got in the private elevator.

As the doors dinged shut and Clint pressed the button for his floor, Steve shifted awkwardly from foot to foot, resting the box on his hip. Clint ignored the ache in his arms from all the boxes they’d lifted from his and Phil’s apartment and wondered when Steve would break the silence.

"What is it?" he asked when Steve kept his mouth shut, eyes trained on the elevator floor.

"This is none of my business, really," Steve said, and Clint rolled his eyes, “but, why do you two address each other so formally when you’re around us? You know that you don’t have to. I’ve heard you use your first names before."

Ah, he’d noticed that. _Observant_ , Clint thought. And kind of awkward.

"It’s a professionalism thing," Clint shrugged. “Like, I doubt he’ll ever be able to call you Steve, or Tony anything but ‘Stark.’ When we first started —" whatever the hell they started out doing, "— we made a deal. Keep it professional; don’t talk about it at work. Last names, ‘yes, sir’s, ’ all that shit. Keeps our heads clear on the field."

"But," and Steve paused awkwardly again, “you’re married. You shouldn’t have to do that around the team. Not all the time."

"I think it’s just because he’s still embarrassed in front of you," Clint shrugged, “you being his childhood hero and all. I have no idea how big of an influence Captain America was in him realizing he was gay." And, yeah, now Clint was just being a dick.

"Right," Steve said, resiliently not blushing. “I had no idea how big of an icon Captain America really became."

"Coulson — Phil’s a collector, you saw his snazzy car," Clint said. “That box has a bunch of his collectable Cap shit. Not that it’s _shit_ ," Clint added hastily.

"I always thought that stuff was a bit…beside the point," Steve said. “It’s not about the stuff, it’s about the symbol. It’s about what it means, what it stands for, fighting for the right thing, all that jazz."

The elevator dinged to announce that they were at their floor, and the doors opened.

"I’m pretty sure if Phil was going to argue his side of it, he’d say the exact same thing," Clint said, walking out into the hallway. “Collecting stuff can be fun. I’ve got a bunch of old arrowheads and bows. Tasha’s into books. And I think Tony inherited the largest private collection of Captain America memorabilia."

"And then there’s Fury," Tony said, jumping into the conversation from where he was standing outside of Phil and Clint’s suite, “who collects misfit toys."

Clint snorted. “Thanks for all the help, Stark," he said sarcastically. “Where are the others? Off to get food?"

"What’s that?" Tony said, holding a hand up to his ear, “why, you’re welcome, Barton, for me letting you stay here free of charge!"

"I overheard you asking Pepper if we counted as a tax exemption," Steve said, “because we’re ‘a charity cause,’ or, what was it -- ‘it’s a service to humanity, Pepper, I swear, there should be some kind of tax reduction for superheroes!’" Clint laughed at the annoyance on Tony’s face.

"Wait," Tony said, narrowing his eyes as he read the writing on Steve’s box, “is this Coulson’s old embarrassing Cap shit?" Tony’s face lit up as he lunged for the box, and  _fuck no,_  Clint could _under no circumstances_ let Tony get into that box. Phil would  _murder_ him — he hadn’t been kidding about the fanfiction from Phil’s teen years. (He was co-editor of a ‘zine. There was slash fiction. Phil didn’t like to talk about it.)

"Yeah, paws off, Stark," Clint said as Tony tried to tug the box from Steve’s grip.

"Not really dissuading me, Barton," Tony said cheerfully, but Steve held on to the box.

"Come on, Tony, it’s none of your business," Steve said, pulling the box back like the good guy he was. Clint dropped the boxes of comics on the floor and tried to pull Stark away.

"Fine," Tony said. He ceased pulling on the box. “Fine. It’s his business. Don’t kill me, you—" Tony ripped the box away from Steve suddenly and turned to run away with it — right into the path of the comic books Clint had dropped.

Clint watched the box fly out of Stark’s hands and through the air almost as if it were in slow motion.

_Crash!_

With a tinkle of broken glass, the box landed.

"Fuck," Clint said weakly, rushing over to the box and Tony. (It had only flown, like, a foot, but it sure as hell felt like more when he knew Coulson was going to serve his ass on a platter for it.) He pulled out one of his knives, ignoring the resultant squeak from Tony, and cut open the tape holding the box closed. With bated breath, the three of them opened the box.

1984 Commemorative Captain America and Bucky glass figurine? Intact. Porcelain plates? Free of cracks. Glass bust? As perfect as Cap’s sculpted chin.

Captain America and Shield limited edition #42 of 500 lamp? Broken. Shattered. Demolished. Pulverized. Crushed. Like all of Clint’s dreams of ever having sex _ever again_.

"I’m sure he won’t make you sleep on the couch for more than, like, a year," Tony said, making Clint wonder if he’d accidentally said that last part out loud.

"Yeah?" Clint said, temper sparking. He watched as Steve helplessly pulled out the pieces of the lamp, the shield broken in two, and looked sadly down at it. “Because you’re the one who broke it, Stark."

"Me?" Tony pushed himself up, “I’m not the one who dropped boxes in my way, or the one who wouldn’t let me see the goddamn box in the first place. I was just  _curious—_ ”

"Shut up, both of you," Steve said sternly, looking up from the lamp. “This is on both of you, for acting like children. Now, what are we going to do about this?"

He closed the box and stood up, cradling the poor remains of the lamp in his hands.

Clint stuck his tongue out at Tony from behind Steve’s back. Tony gave him the finger.

"Hey!" Steve said, raising his voice. “Stark." Tony looked like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar. (The one Clint had ordered Phil for next Christmas, the one with Cap himself smiling away on the side, a chocolate-chip cookie on his arm like the shield.) “Barton." Clint scowled. “Coulson will be up here soon. Who’s going to tell him?"

Clint and Tony looked at each other, then Steve. “You are," they said together, in agreement, for once.

"We can’t tell him," Clint said a moment later, “he’ll kill us."

"I’d like to see him try," Tony said smugly.

Clint shook his head. “I’ve seen that man disarm someone with a  _stick of gum."_   And that seemed to be enough to make Tony take the situation seriously.

"We need a plan," he said, then looked to Steve, who sighed.

"Clint said you have a private collection," Steve said to Tony. “Does it have a lamp like this?"

"JARVIS?" Tony said. Clint couldn’t help but glance upwards as JARVIS replied through the speakers hidden in the ceiling.

"No, sir, but a quick Google search tells me that there is one available at a comic book store ten minutes from here. It is open for the next forty minutes."

"That gives us twenty five minutes," Steve frowned, “Coulson will be up here in five."

"Tony and I will dispose of the evidence and get the replacement lamp," Clint said quickly, taking the broken pieces from Steve. “You stall Phil."

Quickly, Tony and Clint sprinted into the elevator and hit the ‘close doors’ button before Steve could follow them.

*

Phil did not expect to see Captain America — well, Rogers — waiting for him outside his and Clint’s suite when he finally stepped out of the elevator.

"Captain," he said politely.

"Please," Rogers said, stepping forward, “just call me Steve."

"Alright," Phil said, not meaning it at all. “Where’s Barton?"

"They’re —" Rogers stopped. “He’s —" he stopped again.

"You don’t know, do you?" Phil said plainly. Rogers shook his head in agreement. He checked his watch.

"No, I don’t," Rogers admitted.

"Are those my comics?" Phil said suddenly, looking at the two boxes lying abandoned in the middle of the hallway.

"Um," Rogers said helplessly as Phil dove for his boxes and opened one of them to check that everything inside was fine.

"Why aren’t these inside with the others?" Phil said, picking up the boxes. He took a step towards the door to the suite.

"You shouldn’t lift those," Rogers said quickly, diving in front of Phil to take the boxes from him. “I mean," he said apologetically, “you’ve just had surgery, sir, and these boxes are heavy."

"I’m sure I can handle them," Phil said, annoyed -- if a bit flattered -- that Cap actually cared. “But I’ll let you carry them in if you stop calling me ‘sir.’"

Rogers smiled at that and acquiesced as Phil moved towards the door to his new home. Clint would’ve said “yes, sir," to that, Phil thought fondly, wondering where he was.

"Where do you want them?" Rogers asked as they entered Phil’s new living room.

"Over by the other collectables," Phil said, motioning towards a few other boxes of comics. He saw his ‘CAPTAIN AMERICA STALKING MATERIALS’ box on top of the others, the tape peeled off. “I suppose Clint disappeared so he wouldn’t have to unpack," he mused fondly.

"Uh, wait," Rogers said suddenly, stepping in front of Phil, still holding the boxes. “What kind of comics do you have in here? I used to read some — I mean, I was in some, but—"

Phil hesitated. Something was up, both in Rogers’ strange demeanor and the emptiness of the room. But, at the same time,  _Captain America_ wanted to talk comics with him.

"I have some of the first Captain America books," he said, “but you’re probably tired of hearing about those. I’ve got some Batman, though. And Wonder Woman."

"Wonder Woman, huh?" Rogers — no,  _Steve_ — said, peering into one of the boxes. “And is that? — I remember reading this one," he said.

Phil bit back a smile. “Really? That one’s terrible — what were they thinking?"

Steve laughed.

*

"How much?!" Clint breathed, staring at the mint condition, perfectly intact lamp in front of them. The woman behind the counter of the comic ship smiled sympathetically.

"Sorry, honey, but that’s one of the most coveted pieces of Cap merch out there these days. A lot of ‘em have been broken, too, they’re pretty fragile." _And don’t we know it,_ Clint thought.

"We’ll take it," Tony said quickly, forking over more money than Clint had held at once in his life,  _Jesus._

The woman raised her eyebrows and uncapped her marker to check that the bills weren’t fake before she rung them up. Clint always felt vaguely offended whenever someone did that, but, hey, it was their job, right?

He checked his watch as the woman carefully wrapped the glass lamp and handed Tony his change, taking her sweet time doing it.

"Have a nice day," she called after them as they rushed out of the shop.

"Slow down, Tony," Clint called after Tony as he ran towards the car where Happy was waiting. “I don’t want to break the damn thing again."

"Yeah," Tony huffed, “but think about how good Rogers is at stalling."

That thought put a bit more of a spring in his step.

Happy got them back to the Tower in twenty minutes of terrible traffic (it would’ve been two minutes if they ran, but Clint didn’t want to risk the lamp and the paparazzi), and Tony and Clint rushed into the private elevator.

"JARVIS, where’s Coulson?" Tony asked. Clint unwrapped the lamp as the elevator rose.

"He is in his and Mr. Barton’s living room with Captain Rogers," JARVIS supplied.

"Fuck," Tony said, running a hand through his hair.

"Wait," Clint said. “I have an idea."

After some very deserved threatening and promises to shoot him while he was sleeping if he broke the lamp or let them get caught, Clint passed the lamp to Tony and stood in front of him in the elevator, blocking him from view.

When the elevator stopped, Clint rushed out into the hallway, checked that the coast was clear, and then motioned wildly for Tony to come out of the elevator. Using all of his super spy skills (he was _totally_ more than an assassin, no matter how many times Natasha mocked his stealth), he peeked through the door and then flattened himself against the wall next to Tony.

"Fuck," he whispered, “they’re right in front of the box."

"What are they doing in there?" Tony said, trying to sneak a glance around Clint. Clint stopped him.

"It looks like they’re talking about comic books," Clint said, “They’re piled everywhere."

"We’re doomed," Tony groaned. “I’m going to die with gum stuck in my windpipe. He’s going to — mmph!" Clint clapped a hand over Tony’s mouth. He pulled away in disgust a moment later as Tony _licked_ it.

"Listen here, Stark," Clint said, wiping his hand on his jeans, “wait here. When you see that he’s distracted, sneak in behind Phil and put it back in the box. Got it?"

"Got — wait," Tony said, grabbing Clint’s arm with his free hand as Clint moved towards the room. “How will I know that he’s distracted?"

"Trust me," Clint smirked, “you’ll know."

With that, he strode into his and Phil’s suite, forcing a lazy smile onto his face.

"Hey, babe," he said casually as Phil looked up. He and Steve were surrounded by stacks of comics, in and out of their bags. Phil got to his feet carefully and frowned as Clint approached him. “I thought you were supposed to be unpacking.”

"And I thought  _you_ were going to help," Phil said, standing up and looking equal parts confused and fond. “Where have you — mmph!" Clint swept Phil into his arms and kissed him, hoping that Tony was watching (well, not watching, but getting his ass into gear and stashing the new lamp) and his kiss wasn’t going to waste. Phil began to pull away, but, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Tony, still cradling the lamp, heading stealthily towards the box.

Clint quickly pressed closer to Phil and ran a hand through his hair, hoping that Phil would give into the temptation to linger a moment longer.

It did — Clint deepened the kiss and Phil  _melted,_  opening his mouth to Clint, looping his arms around Clint’s waist, and letting Clint kiss him breathless.

They broke apart abruptly when Tony cleared his throat; Phil looked red-faced and dazed, and Clint relieved when he saw Tony and Steve standing next to the box, arms crossed. Steve looked down at his feet, embarrassed, but Tony smiled smugly at them.

"Don’t say a word, Stark," Phil said warningly, regaining his composure, then glanced at Clint questioningly. Clint shrugged.

"So," Clint said, taking a deep breath, “how about we get some takeout before we finish unpacking?"

*

"Sold! For two hundred," the auctioneer announced from the front of the room.

"Funny how they don’t mention that it’s two hundred fucking  _million_ ," Clint muttered in Phil’s ear. They sat on folding chairs in the back, spectators away from the bidding crowd, so they could giggle over the insane prices people paid for their things without being shushed. (And also because Phil knew ritzy crowds put Clint on edge.)

"I didn’t think ‘fucking million’ was a number," Phil whispered back with a small smile. They rolled away the book, a first edition copy of  _The Fellowship of the Ring_ , made significant only because it had been Natasha’s until she’d decided to auction it off in the charity auction. It also had her notes in the margins, which may have had something to do with the high price.

"It’s funny how my collection of ancient arrowheads only went for like, half that," Clint grumbled, “sure, if it belongs to Tony or Steve, it’s worth more than I’ll ever see in my life. But if it’s mine—" Clint stopped short, just as the auctioneer announced the next item. Phil smiled sadly as they brought out his old Captain America lamp.

"Phil," Clint said in a dead voice. “Phil. Please tell me you’re not giving away your  _Captain America and Shield limited edition #42 of 49—500 lamp_?!"

"Okay," Phil said, “I won’t tell you."

Clint made a noise in the back of his throat, almost as if he was dying (or like he’d just been cockblocked; the noises were frighteningly similar).

"But," he stammered as the bidding began, “but — that thing was your _baby!_ ”

"It’s for a good cause," Phil said, smiling. “And it’s not even in the box. Cap and I signed it to try to up the value. I didn’t think you cared about my old collector’s stuff."

Clint made that noise again, but Phil was too distracted by the auctioneer announcing, “Agent Phil Coulson — the Avengers’ handler and husband of Clint Barton, aka Hawkeye — has graciously donated his Captain America and Shield limited edition lamp! This lamp, number 197 of 500—"

"Forty-two," Phil whispered to Clint, frowning at the auctioneer.

"Huh?"

"My lamp was number forty-two. It’s painted on the bottom."

"That’s what he said."

"No, he said one hundred and ninety-seven."

Phil turned to look at Clint, who carefully avoided eye contact.

"Clint," he said in a low voice. He watched as Clint bit the inside of his cheek. “Clint. Did you replace my lamp? Did you  _break it and not tell me?_ ”

"Has anyone ever told you how gorgeous you are when you’re angry?" Clint said, edging away in his metal seat, “almost as hot as you are when you’re forgiving. Very forgiving. And understanding. I have to pee." Clint got to his feet.

"Barton," Phil growled, lunging for the back of Clint’s jacket as he tried to leap over his folding chair.

The chair fell with a loud  _clang!_  that echoed through the room. The two of them went with it.

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt:  
> [theseawillneversettle](http://theseawillneversettle.tumblr.com/) asked: How about Steve helping Clint and Phil moving their stuff into Stark Tower accidentally breaking an old Cap lamp Phil was holding onto. Clint’s all oh my god we have to replace it before Phil gets home and Phil just sells the replacement at a community yard sale.


End file.
